Wet Confessions
But he kept going, bolder now, brushing against the thin cotton stretched over my panties.
I was wet. Already. From the man I swore I’d never think of this way. From the risk, the danger, the utter wrongness of it.
When his finger pressed against the damp spot, I nearly whimpered. I bit the inside of my cheek, hard, until I tasted blood, anything to keep from moaning like a slut on his couch.
And then, God, I shifted my hips. Just a little. Just enough to tell him what I was too ashamed to say.
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